


The Dankest Dugout

by AmISam



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, enjoy this dumpster fire my dudes, most of this sounded better in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmISam/pseuds/AmISam
Summary: A collection of the moments from my Darkest Dungeon playthroughs that haven't made sense. Alternatively known as the times when the Heir realized they’d hired a bunch of idiots.Don't read this if you're looking for something serious, thoughtful, or in-character, 'cause there ain't none of that here. That said, if you want writing dedicated to turning a serious game into nonsense, you've come to right place!





	1. Nymphomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In my first time ever playing the game, the first quirk I got, right after the tutorial, was “Nymphomania” for Reynauld. First real impression of the game, and I could tell I had a work of art in my hands.
> 
> You have to wonder, what are your heroes are thinking when they get some of these quirks? You have the reasonable ones that you could kinda explain, like Zoophobia or Quick Reflexes, but then there's Nymphomania? How do you go through a terrible hellscape and come out wanting to bone? 
> 
> Anyways, this is stupid and short, but I have no regrets.

They’d taken a moment to rest before heading into the Hamlet, mostly so that the Heir could patch up the nasty gash that rigged chest had given the Highwayman. Reynauld sat to the side, watching the man try to keep a straight face as the Heir dabbed at his wounded arm with some concoction from their pack.

 _Serves you right, you greedy bastard,_ he thought, smirking under his helmet. Senseless greed only brought one trouble, but it didn’t surprise him that the grimy bandit didn’t know that.

Reynauld couldn’t fathom why the Heir had brought along such scum. He was seedy and evasive with a darkness to his eyes that made the warrior uneasy - hardly traits suitable for a man you needed to depend on - and if his habit of reaching for every chest in sight kept up he could very well bring misfortune upon the rest of them, too. But alas, the Heir had hired him, so it looked like the Crusader would be working alongside him regardless.

Turning his gaze away, Reynauld looked to the Hamlet, just barely visible through the twisted forest. What awaited them there? More brigands? He hoped not. While he could hold his own in a fight, he didn't trust the Highwayman to watch his back, and the Heir certainly wasn’t suited for combat. The Caretaker had insisted the place was safe, but this was coming from a man who had spent most of the time since Reynaud had met him muttering inanely and tugging on his matted beard. He was probably dead now, anyway, having vanished into the woods following the carriage's crash. Some brigand had probably caught the scrawny madman and slit his throat by now. With the state he was in, it's no wonder something like that hadn't happened earlier.

Reynauld's eyes flicked back over to the Heir, who had begun wrapping a bandage around the Highwayman's arm. A cloak was pulled tight around their form, concealing their features, and only a pair of black-gloved hands protruded from the woolen folds. They were quiet and mysterious, yet carried themselves with a regalness that commanded everyone's attention. Not exactly the sort of employer Reynauld had ever imagined himself working for, but he had also never imagined himself agreeing to follow someone into a brigand infested wood at nothing more than the request of a dead man's letter.

Eventually, the Heir finished bandaging the Highwayman up and announced they could continue onwards. Reynauld stood and reached for his sword, more than ready to keep going. Their journey along the Old Road had given them a taste of what was to come, and Reynauld felt all the more strengthened by the ordeal. He looked at the Highwayman as the lanky man tentatively stretched his wounded arm, wincing as he did so. With narrowed eyes, Reynauld decided he would have to keep an eye on the man, just to be safe. If he couldn’t rely upon his companion in battle, he would simply have to become strong enough to not need him.

He had expected this new gain in resolve to bring him some sense of empowerment, but he instead felt an odd stirring in his core, accompanied by a thought that made his God-Fearing mind shudder.

_I could really do with getting laid right now._


	2. Dismas' Gambling Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dismas starts out with the “Known Cheat” quirk, which stops him from gambling. Well, during my second run, after the first foray into the ruins, he ended up getting the “Gambler” perk, which makes him unable to do anything but gamble for stress relief. Guess who got put in time-out until I could unlock the sanitarium (hint: it was him).
> 
> Also, it doesn't really make sense realistically for you to only be able to send a single Hero to a spot at a time to start with. But we'll deal with that later, so here's Dismas being a pain in the ass.

Even after just a single week in the rotting lands they now called home, the Heir had seen some messed up shit. That first expedition into the Ruins had all but crushed any remaining hope for things to not be as bad as their grandfather had made them out to be. It was going to be hell, they realized, and they’d only just scratched the surface of it.

But the nightmares within the Ruins weren't the end of their torment, it seemed. It would have been reasonable to expect some peace upon their return to the Hamlet. It was decrepit and falling apart, yes, but the people were eager to help and share what little they had. It should have promised at least a little respite, but upon their return, the Heir realized the expeditions were only a part of their new duties. They now had to manage the companions they recruited for whatever reason. Even with just six of them, the Heir quickly understood it would be an ordeal in itself.

The crusader Reynauld and the vestal Junia were the easiest to deal with. Reynauld, ever the holy knight, refused to do anything but pray, and Junia, however meek and gentle she appeared, had all but begged to be sent to the Penance Hall. It was a surprising request from the woman, but the Heir supposed all had their own ways of finding peace, even if it was through the sting of a whip. And so the two were sent on their way to abbey.

Then came Paracelsus, or whatever the hell that witch-doctor’s name was. She'd willingly sauntered off to the tavern to get plastered - however unfitting a behavior that was for a doctor.

The two newest recruits, greying Man-at-Arms Barristan and cryptic Occultist Alhazred had no need for rest, fresh off the carriage as they were. They were practically falling over themselves in their eagerness to see what lay in store for them here. The Heir doubted their eagerness would last once they were actually _in_ the Ruins, being assaulted at every step by cultists and monsters, but that was matter for another time.

So that left Dismas, the Highwayman.

The Heir's first instinct had been to send him to the tavern with Paracelsus; he certainly didn’t seem the type to be found in the abbey, but it soon became evident that wasn’t possible. Word reached them from the barkeep that Dismas wasn’t allowed to gamble in the hazy back rooms of the tavern, due to his apparent cheating problem. They didn’t bother to ask how he’d already managed to make this known. It was an inconvenience, but surely it wasn’t the end of the world. There was still the brothel, and while the Heir would never go near the place, they knew some enjoyed the loveless touch of those perfumed women.

But, as they would quickly discover, the Highwayman had different preferences.

“I prefer to gamble.” He’d said when the Heir had tried to suggest where he should visit.

They stared at him, wondering if they’d misheard about his cheating problem. “Aren’t you not allowed to gamble?” They asked, just to be certain.

“Yeah.” He’d replied nonchalantly.

“So shouldn’t you find something else to do?”

“I’d rather gamble.”

“But you can’t.”

“It's what I like to do.”

“But you _can’t_.”

“It’s my only hobby.”

“But. You. Can’t.”

“It’s all I want to do.”

The Heir’s eye twitched, and they sucked in a strained breath through gritted teeth. Trying to keep from strangling the man, the Heir forced a thin smile on their face and choked out a, “I’ll be seeing you then.”

This place really _was_ going to be hell, wasn’t it?


	3. The Best Nun and by Best Nun I Actually Mean the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter about a Faithless warrior priestess who I sent to a brothel.
> 
> So, the flagellation-loving vestal seen previous is technically a different vestal than the one we see here, but fuck having to keep track of multiple vestals, so it’s the same chick with different problems. (The fine lady we’ll focus on today was inspired by a level 6 Vestal named Conteville who got totally, as the kids say, #rekt by the Fanatic towards the end of my most recent playthrough. May she rest in peace.)
> 
> I just want to take this game seriously, but then it gives me situations like this and the magic's gone, like when your date starts to talk about their love of collecting dictionaries.

A few weeks had passed since their arrival at the Hamlet, and the Heir was willing to say things were actually going rather smoothly. The Ruins were no less horrifying, granted, but the fighters they’d recruited were getting stronger with each expedition, allowing them to trek further and further into the twisting catacombs below the manor. It gave a feeling of progress, even if all they were unearthing was more shirtless cultists and obscenely large spiders.

The roster had expanded, giving them a diverse band of adventurers and mercenaries, and more arrived each week. There were the expected ones, like Tardif the Bounty Hunter and Audrey the Grave Robber, who were clearly there with hopes of finding fortune, and then there were the flat-out bizarre ones, such as the Jester who insisted on being called Jingles and the deeply devout Leper Baldwin who only seemed capable of speaking in poetry. How such people had found their way to the Hamlet was beyond the Heir, but an extra blade was just that, so they supposed it was pointless to question their motives.

Unfortunately, with more fighters mulling about the Hamlet, the Heir had more managing to do to ensure they were all in top condition. Gold was everything here, and limited funds meant the Heir had to think carefully on who to, for lack of a better word, invest in. Did they pay the guild to train Alhazred so he actually fucking _healed_ people? Or did they pay the blacksmith to upgrade Dismas’ armor so he didn’t have a near-death experience every time a spider looked at him wrong?

And of course, there was still the matter of dealing with everyone’s stress levels (ironically at the cost of increasing the Heir’s own stress). With only a limited number of places to send people, and each of those places costing gold, it became a game of strategy as the Heir tried to figure out who to send where. By then, thankfully, they had something of a system going, which made things easier.

Reynauld and Junia went to the Abbey to pray, Baldwin went to the Penance Hall, and Alhazred went to mediate. Easy enough. The alcoholics like Audrey and Paracelsus went to the tavern for drinks, Tardif and Dismas (who had since been forcibly absolved of his cheating problem thanks to the newly reopened Sanitarium) went for the card tables, and Barristan went to the brothel (it reached the Heir later that he hadn’t actually slept with any of the prostitutes and had instead spent his time there telling stories of his past campaigns, which didn’t surprise them at all).

But on this particular occasion, the Heir found themselves in something of a predicament. And that predicament was in the form of a certain Vestal who had experienced a drastic change of heart during the most recent expedition into the Ruins. Maybe it was too many nights of sleeping on cold stone floors, maybe it was fighting a monstrous necromancer, but regardless there was something different about Junia. And that something different was proving to be a pain in the Heir’s ass.

Long story short, the highly religious warrior priestess was no longer feeling the Light’s Embrace, and refused to enter the Abbey. When the Heir asked if that meant she was no longer a priestess, they had only been told it didn't, with no further explanation. 

While this could have easily given birth to a conversation about the nature of faith and spiritualism, the Heir didn't have time for that crap. They had expeditions to get ready for, and since Junia was their only true healer they had to find a way to de-stress her before venturing out again. The Heir's first thought was to send her to meditate, but they'd already sent Alhazred to do that, and Junia wasn't quite worth the thousand or so gold it would take to remove him from the activity. And then they remembered - they'd sent Barristan to the Sanitarium to deal with the illness he'd contracted two weeks prior.

And it was this realization that lead to possibly one of the most uncomfortable conversations the Heir had ever had. They caught the priestess in the barracks as Junia sat mending a hole in one of her skirts, and sent a quick prayer up to the sky for this to go well.

"Hey, Junia!" They called, trying to sound amicable.

The priestess raised her head, expression unchanging. "Yes?"

"Just wanted to check in and see if you were still sure about the whole ‘Faithless’ thing?” That probably could have been phrased smoother, but the Heir couldn't claim conversation making as one of their skills.

“Yes.” Came the monotoned reply, prompting a defeated sigh from the Heir.

“Well, in that case, how do you feel about, uh, heading to the, uh, brothel to, uh, relieve some stress?”

For a long moment, there was nothing from the Vestal, and Heir had swallowed hard, fearing they had insulted her. The silence stretched, with Junia's unblinking stare not wavering for even a heartbeat. The Heir shifted on their feet.

Finally, when the silence was nearly suffocating, the Heir spoke.

“Alright, stupid idea, I’m sorry I-” The Heir began, only to be cut off abruptly.

“Sure.” Junia suddenly said.

The Heir's words died in their throat. They gawked at the priestess, acceptance honestly being the last thing response they'd been expecting. "P-pardon?" They stumbled out.

"Sure, I'll go." Junia repeated. "Just let me finish my sewing."

After opening and closing their mouth a couple times in their struggle to find words, the Heir at last managed to say, "Alright then." Then, still a little stunned, they turned and left. Perhaps they might check to see if Audrey and Paracelsus had room for one more tonight. 


	4. The Caretaker is Currently Enjoying this Activity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: "Reynauld the Problem Child, pt 1"
> 
> I understand it's a game mechanic, but why can I only send a single hero to each activity at the start of the game? How does that make sense? 
> 
> This is my attempt at explaining this, just in a shitty and ridiculous way. Set towards the start of things, not that this is a work terribly infatuated with keeping a consistent timeline.

The Caretaker was a strange man, as the Heir quickly learned. From his backward style of speech to his habit of breaking out into demented giggles, it was clear the fellow was a few pancakes short of a full breakfast. However, for all his bizarreness, he was also totally harmless. He had gone mad, yes, but at least his fried brain still grasped the idea of being totally dedicated to the Hamlet and to the Heir.

But, like literally everything else in these damned lands, he still managed to find a way to prematurely gray the Heir, though indirectly.

They discovered this around three or four weeks into their stay at the Hamlet, when things were just beginning to get rolling. The Heir had been doing what they usually did in between expeditions, managing their recruits, when an interesting update reached them from the Abbey. They'd just sent Reynauld to do his usual bit of praying when the Crusader returned to them with the news that he was unable to do what they'd asked.

"Excuse me?" The Heir questioned, looking up from their work.

"I cannot do what you ask," Reynauld repeated.

Staring at his helmet (since apparently he never removed the blasted thing), the Heir blinked. "Why ever not?"

"It would be easier to show you."

They looked at him for a moment longer, brows creased, before turning back to their desk. The Heir grabbed the glass of whiskey that had been keeping them company and quickly downed the last bits of it, just in case this was going to be one of _those_ occasions. "Alright, lead the way." They said as they rose and reached for their cloak.

The Crusader set off, the Heir tailing behind, and made his way through the Hamlet up to the Abbey. Once there, he guided open the heavy wooden door and gestured for the Heir to enter. They did, pushing down their hood and squinting to see in the dim lighting.

"So what's the matter?" They asked, not immediately seeing anything out of the ordinary.

"Look up front." Reynauld told them, pointing towards the altar.

More than a little perplexed, the Heir moved further into the Abbey, steps echoing in the space. As they approached the altar, they began to hear a quiet muttering. Immediately they understood. A few steps and they were at the front of the church, where they saw, in the pew to their left, a certain skinny Caretaker deep in prayer. Only, it wasn't perhaps the most conventional position to pray in, as the man had managed to spread himself out across the entire pew, lanky limbs everywhere. His watery eyes shut, glasses askew, and clothes disheveled, it was clear he was absorbed in the Verses he was so obsessively repeating.

Odd as it was, however, it was hardly that troublesome. He was quiet in his muttering, barely audible if one sat in the right place, and his strange position was only noticeable when one looked at him. 

Looking back down to where Reynauld stood by the doors, the Heir gave the Crusader a confused look. Surely this couldn't be what was disrupting his ability to pray.

So as not to disturb the Caretaker, the Heir crossed back over to Reynauld. "How is he the issue?"

"He's sitting in my pew." The Crusader told them matter-of-factly.

"Your pew?"

"Yes. That's where I always sit to pray."

"So just sit somewhere else."

"But that's where I _always_ sit."

Wishing they'd drunk another glass of whiskey before coming here, the Heir took a slow breath to calm themselves. "Reynauld, there are ten rows of pews for you to sit in. Sitting somewhere differently isn't going to damn you." They said slowly.

"But I have to pray in _my_ spot." He insisted.

_"Why?"_

"Because it's _my spot_."

Screw another drink, they should have just brought the bottle. "By the Light, Reynauld, why can't you just sit somewhere else for one week?"

Unsurprisingly, his reply was, "I can only pray properly when I'm sitting in my pew."

"How does the pew you're in affect your ability to pray?" The Heir asked, before deciding they didn't actually want to know. In a tone too chipper for a person seconds away from backhanding a man in a helmet, they went on, "You know what, nevermind. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until he's done. In the meantime, you know what you can do, Reynauld, my boy?" 

"Yes?"

The Heir went up on their tiptoes so they could get right up close to him, and said in a seething whisper,"Go fuck yourself."

With that, they turned and left, the Crusader staring after them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for Reynauld the Problem Child pt 2, where a certain Crusader can't keep his grubby hands off every other bit of loot in the Ruins.


	5. More Problems With Rey-boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Dismas starts out as a Cheater, Reynauld starts out as a Kleptomaniac. For whatever reason, I went ten weeks in-game during my first playthrough without seeing so much as a longing glance from him towards some loot. But then, after those blissful ten weeks, after I'd been lulled into a false sense of security, Reynauld decided to get a little grabby-grabby during a trip through the Ruins. The following chapter is inspired by this trip, where I nearly lost my favorite Graverobber due to Reynauld.
> 
> Also, take a moment today to thank your Antiquarians, 'cause you and I both know those ladies fund most campaigns.

They’d been down in the Ruins for nearly a day, trudging through the cobweb-filled corridors and killing anything that moved. It was about as easy an expedition as they came, though that didn’t mean it was a walk in the park. Perhaps a stroll through hell would be a more apt term, only a part of hell that was less, well, hellish, than the rest.

The Heir was leading the way, holding a torch up to illuminate the shadowy halls stretching out before them.  Behind them followed Reynauld, Barristan, Audrey, and newly-recruited Katharine the Antiquarian. They did not speak as they went, save a few quips here and there, and the echo of their feet was the only consistent sound. As the expedition was nearing its end, their packs were laden with loot, mostly gathered with help from Katharine's keen eyes. The woman was more or less useless in a fight, but when it came to gathering the spoils of that fight, there was no finer finder of valuables, making her immensely handy when the Heir's pockets were getting light. Unfortunately, as was the norm these days, she was by no means a perfect being.

"Are we done yet?" Came her question for the fifth time that hour alone, coaxing a series of silent groans from her four companions. For a person whose skillset primarily involved crawling through dungeons to find expensive trinkets, the Antiquarian seemed awfully keen on leaving said dungeons as soon as feasibly possible. 

The Heir stopped to reach for the map, just as they had done five times already that hour, knowing that Katharine would probably just ask again regardless. They handed the torch to Barristan and unfolded the crumpled map. It was a simple and crude thing, since their grandfather hadn't really put much effort into the cartography of the halls beneath the manor, but it had thus far done it's duty and kept them from getting too horribly lost. Peering at the faded writing in the torch's flickering light, the Heir figured they were somewhat close to the last room of this particular branch of the dungeon. A blessing, for sure, since that last room would mark the end of this week's dungeon diving. 

"The next room ought to be the last." The Heir announced, "It should be just ahead." The Antiquarian let out a pleased huff, signalling she was finally satisfied, and the Heir tucked away the map for what they hoped was the last time this week. "Let's push on and be done with this place." They said, seeing nods of agreement from the others. Taking the torch back from Barristan, the Heir set off once again, steps renewed with the ever-nearing promise of something close to rest.

Not ten steps later, when the door was just coming into view, the Heir heard a horrible metallic clanging sound from behind them, followed by a curse. They whipped around, fearing an ambush, and instead found Graverobber Audrey attempting, it seemed, to swear away the spikes suddenly embedded into her thigh. How she had managed to spring a trap no one before her had was beyond the Heir, but that was a thought to be dealt with after the woman was no longer impaled.

Already a step ahead of them, Barristan was quick to hurry over to Audrey. As a man who had probably seen more combat injuries that all of them, even Reynauld, could ever imagine, the Heir trusted him to do what was needed.

The bearded man quickly barked for Katharine, the nearest non-Audrey body, to hold the still-cursing Graverobber still. While she did that and Barristan set out trying to remove Audrey's leg from the trap, the Heir scanned the path ahead of them. They had used all their bandages in an earlier run-in with some very angry cultists, but the frequency of people dying down in these ruins usually meant there were abandoned packs left behind, which in turn sometimes had supplies in them. And in a rare case of luck, there happened to be one such pack just ahead. They turned to the only other unoccupied figure around, which just happened to be Reynauld.

"Reynauld, go see if that pack up there has any bandages or something in it." They commanded to the Crusader, who nodded and did as they asked.

Looking back to the other three of their group, the Heir watched as Barristan managed to free Audrey's leg. He and Katharine lowered the bleeding, and still swearing, Graverobber to the ground so as to better examine the wound.

"Bleedin' pretty badly." The Man-at-Arms reported, pulling a handkerchief from his belt to press on the injury. "Do we have any bandages?" He asked with a glance to the Heir.

They shook their head, replying, "All out. Reynauld's checking a pack up ahead."

As if on cue, the Crusader returned. "Nothing." Came his muffled voice.

The Heir cursed under their breath. Of course things went wrong now, so close to the end, that was just how things were around here.

"Could probably do with some ointment, too." Barristan went on. "Heavens know what might have been on those spikes."

"We're out of that, too." The Heir said, frowning.

"So am I to bleed out or die of infection?" Audrey asked sourly in her first non-expletive filled sentence recently.

"Hold on a second." Katharine suddenly spoke up. "Reynauld, what's that in your pocket?"

All eyes turned to the Crusader, whose expression was unreadable due to, well, the helmet.

"What's what?" He asked, tone one of surprise.

"That, there, in your pocket." The Antiquarian pointed to the object she had seemed to notice.

"It's nothing!" Reynauld said, abruptly sounding very defensive.

"That's a bandage, isn't it?" Katharine pressed, stepping closer to the man.

"O-of course it isn't!" Reynauld moved away from her, but suddenly Barristan was behind him, blocking any escape. The Heir fixed Reynauld with a perplexed and irritated glare.

"Reynauld, why do you have a bandage?" They asked.

"I need it." Was all he said.

"You need it? Why?"

"I just need it."

"Are you injured or something?"

"No, I just need this bandage. It's mine. I found it."

The Heir looked around at the others, just to make sure they were hearing him too, before turning their eyes back to the Crusader. "Reynauld, Audrey is bleeding. If we want to finish this trip she needs to be bandaged up."  They explained slowly, as if speaking to a child.

"She can use something else." He answered.

From where she sat bleeding on the ground, Audrey muttered out a quiet, "Wanker."

"Reynauld, just hand over the bandage so we can keep going." The Heir said.

"No." He quickly replied. "It's mine."

The Heir rubbed their face with a hand, letting out an exasperated sigh. It was the damn pew incident all over again.

"Give us the bandage, lad." Barristan tried, placing a heavy hand on Reynauld's shoulder. 

The Crusader jerked away, hand shoved into his pocket to protect his prize. "No! I found it so it's mine. You can't have it!"

Fully prepared to break a few knuckles punching the man in his stupid helmeted face, the Heir was only stopped by Katharine's hand on their sleeve. The woman leaned in and whispered an idea into their ear, and idea that, while not as good as flat out punching him, might still work to get Reynauld to hand over the bandage.

"Fine. You win. Keep it." The Heir told him, throwing up their hands in surrender.

"What?" Audrey demanded. "What am I supposed to do then?"

Her protest was quickly forgotten, as just as Reynauld was relaxing the Antiquarian produced a handful of her flashpowder from her sleeve and hurled it at his face. Enough of it got through the slits in his helm that the Crusader was blinded, and as he shouted in surprise Katharine darted forward and snatched the bandage from his pocket. She passed the white gauze to Barristan, who got to work on Audrey, while the Heir watched in satisfied amusement as Reynauld squirmed in discomfort. 

"As soon as we're done here you're paying a visit to the Sanitarium." They said, not caring that he probably wasn't listening. "I might even just leave you there, too."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm done complaining about Reynauld for now, but that'd be lying. Next time we'll cover Junia's sex vacation, followed by Baldwin the Leper being witness to something he really wishes he hadn't, thanks to a certain Highwayman and Crusader.
> 
> Also, for a brief moment of seriousness, thank you to everyone who's taken a moment to read this. It warms my shitposting heart.


	6. Junia's Wild Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junia takes a week-long sex vacation. 
> 
> Also, I wrote this while listening to "Bounce" by Iggy Azelea on repeat. I don't know if that's supposed to be a symbol for my mental state, but I've heard the word "Bounce" so much by the time I'm writing this summary that I'm starting to question the true meaning of life.

They had returned from a near-disastrous trip into the Warrens not an hour ago, and already the Heir had downed three full glasses of whiskey in an attempt to calm their nerves. Responsibilities be damned, they just wanted to drink until they no longer saw hideously disfigured pig-men every time they closed their eyes. 

"I don't think I'll ever eat pork again." They muttered to themselves, pouring glass number four. Sitting in front of the crackling fireplace in their meager study, the Heir had no intentions of leaving their chair for at least another couple glasses. Surely the Hamlet could function until then, right? 

As the glass was an inch from their lips, there was a knock on the study door. The Heir paused, tired eyes flicking over to the entrance, and briefly considered telling whoever it was to fuck off. But not wanting to risk offending one of the people here they actually liked, they decided against it. The glass of whiskey was reluctantly set aside as the Heir slowly rose from the seat.  Joints, fooled into thinking they'd been given some time off, creaked and popped as the Heir moved over to the door.

"Yes?" They asked, pulling open the heavy slab of wood.

On the other side stood, much to the Heir's surprise, the Mistress of the Brothel. Once a woman of the night like the ladies she managed, age and the toil of living in the Hamlet had turned her into the stern, if still incredibly attractive proprieter of the one place in town the Heir did not visit. The two had never really spoken, aside from a brief introduction upon the Heir's initial arrival, so to find her calling at the Heir's door was something of a shock.

"Can I help you Madame?" The Heir asked, thankful the whiskey had yet to catch up with them and take away coherent speech. 

"Aye, my Liege. I have some alarming news for you." The woman said in a serious tone.

The Heir sighed, resting their head against the edge of the door. There went their hopes of relaxing. 

"What's the matter?"

"It's that Vestal, my Liege, Junia. She's gone."

The Heir blinked, second-guessing whether or not the whiskey had kicked in yet, "What do you mean, gone?"

The Mistress shrugged, "She's just gone. Up and vanished last night after saying she wasn't satisfied with my girls."

Vaguely remembering having sent Junia to the brothel the previous week to relieve her stress, as she was still adamant about not going to the Abbey, the Heir frowned. "Where would she have gone?" They asked.

The Mistress could only offer another shrug. "This town's the only settlement for days, but no one's seen her around at all."

The Heir groaned and rubbed their face. "So what's she doing then? Out fucking some trees? Or the bandits along the Old Road?" They asked out of frustration.

"My girls have said she's awfully debaucherous for a woman of the cloth, my Liege. There's no telling what she's gone to do."

"Why can't anyone here be normal, for Light's sake? Do I just attract lunatics?" They asked the Mistress, not expecting a reply.

The woman smiled sadly at her, "If it's any consolation, my Liege, I've seen clients do this before. They get all riled up on sex and hormones that they take off in search of even greater pleasure. But they usually find their ways back sooner or later."

While the Heir struggled to think of a place where one would find 'greater pleasure' in the middle of nowhere, they supposed there was nothing they could do for the time being. "I hope so..." Was all they said. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Madame."

"Of course. Good day, my Liege." The woman gave a curt bow, dipping her form just low enough to show off ample amounts of her generous cleavage, before turning to leave. The Heir watched her for a moment, mulling over whatever it was that half-drunk people mulled over. Then, shutting the door, they returned to the fireside and their drink.

No more mention was made of Junia for another week. During that time, the Vestal remained missing, and the Heir had been forced to postpone the expedition to kill whatever big atrocity owned the tunnels of the Warrens, as there was no way they were attempting such a feat without the healer on the team. Instead, they made a brief trip through a branch of the Weald, using the time there to give a couple newer members of the team some experience.

By the time of their return, the Heir was greeted with somewhat up lifting news. Junia had returned.

The Heir wasted no time in bringing the Vestal into their study, eager to know just where the hell she'd gone for an entire week. The response they received, while very in-character for Junia, was not what they'd wanted.

"I was away." She had merely stated, seated across from the Heir.

"Away?" The Heir repeated. "Where?"

"Places."

"What kind of places?" The Heir pressed, trying to get anything out of the stoic woman.

"Just places."

The Heir let out a tense breath. "Junia, you were gone for a full week. The Mistress said you'd stormed out of the brothel seeking 'greater pleasure'. The nearest town is almost two days away by carriage, and there hasn't been a ship in the port for months. Where on earth did you go?"

The Vestal stared at them for a long moment, her gaze ever unnerving. Eventually, she simply said, "That is my business."

As was often the case with any conversation with Junia, the Heir was at a loss for words. "Well, Junia..." They began, unsure what else to say, "I suppose I can only ask you to avoid doing that again."

"Alright. Is that all?"

"I guess."

The Vestal stood, and with a polite nod of her head, left the study, leaving the Heir with far more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, we finally delve into the murky world of smushing Dismas and Reynauld together like Barbie dolls. Just maybe not in the way one would usually go about doing such a thing.


	7. Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My Leper came back from a session of prayer with the "Witness" quirk, and this is what I like to imagine happened. 
> 
> Additionally, this chapter is dedicated to the, like, 7 people who are kinda into the Leper.

The knock on their study door came late in the evening. Having already retired for the night, the Heir wasn't expecting any visitors, and as such the knock was met with scrutiny. Setting aside the book they'd been reading, the Heir rose, deciding that for someone to come to their door at such an hour must mean it was an important matter. They pulled their robe tighter around themselves and prayed for it not to be bad news. They were actually having a somewhat decent evening, and they _really_ weren't looking to spoil that. 

A masked face met them on the opposite side of the door, instantly recognizable as Baldwin, the Leper. One of the few individuals in the Hamlet who didn't seem bent on making the Heir's every waking moment hell, his was a welcome face at their door.

The Heir offered him a smile and a nod, their good mood not yet ruined, "An odd hour for a visit, Baldwin." They said, stepping aside to invite him in.

"I fear I do not come for a mere chat." Came his reply, and the Heir did their best to not make their pained inhale too noticable.

"A shame." They told him, before turning back to the fireplace, "Come, take a seat so we can at least talk with the illusion of a pleasant chat." Stopping by the cart of liquors they kept in the corner, they glanced over at the Leper, "Care for a drink?"

"No, I do not drink. But thank you." Baldwin replied, taking a careful seat on the chair not occupied by the Heir's book.

The Heir huffed out a curt sort of laugh. "Neither did I before coming here." But for his sake they left the cart untouched and went to their chair and sat, moving the book to the side table between them and the other chair. "So what brings you here?" They asked, looking at Baldwin's masked face.

The Leper pursed his lips, looking into the crackling fire. "I do not know quite how to phrase this..."

"Take your time." The Heir told him, sitting back and getting comfortable for what was no doubt going to be an interesting tale.

"Earlier this evening, I went to the church to pray." He began, "And I was witness to an act that has...soured my ability to pray peacefully."

"Please don't tell me it's related to the Caretaker." The Heir asked quickly; Reynauld's issue with the man was more than enough to deal with, they didn't need Baldwin in on it as well.

He looked at them, confusion clear even if they could not see most of his face. "The Caretaker? No, why would you ask-"

"It's nothing." The Heir waved it off, taking a small amount of comfort in knowing it wasn't what they'd feared. "Go on."

"Right...Well, I went in to pray, and at first nothing seemed to be amiss. But as I was sitting down, I noticed Sir Reynauld at the front."

 _Oh no._ Was all the Heir could think.

"I thought he was just there to pray, same as I, but then I noticed..." Baldwin's voice trailed off and he shifted in discomfort. As a man afflicted with a terrible illness, who had known many years of adversity and hardship, it took a great deal to make Baldwin uncomfortable. The Heir grimaced in anticipation of whatever news they were about to recieve.

After a heavy swallow, the Leper continued, "I noticed he was saying something. I was too far to hear his words, but at first I presumed he was simply reciting the Verses, as he tends to. But then he, erm, made a sound that most certainly did not sound like something one would make while in prayer. And that was when I noticed another figure with him." Baldwin shifted again, wringing his hands. "It was that Highwayman. And he was...rather preoccupied with..."

Against their will, an image of what Baldwin was describing conjured itself in the Heir's head, making them cringe. "You need not continue." They said, seeing where this was going. "I can see why that put you off."

"It is not that I have anything against either of them, if anything I can only envy the comfort they find in one another, but in the church? Out in the open? Certainly if I had the pleasure of a lover in their knees before me I'd want to savor it in private."

The Heir nearly choked on their own breath. _Did he just say...?_ They thought, giving Baldwin a wide-eyed stare. One half of their mind rationalized that leprosy likely greatly decreased the amount of tail one received, and the other half made an off-handed comment on how Baldwin was a kind, sophisticated man, even if he had a less-than ideal complexion, and that they could certainly do worse things - or rather, people - with their free time.

Disgusted and a little amazed with both thoughts and refusing to confront either, the Heir shook their head and tried to move past the comment. "Do you want me to speak to them?" They asked.

"I do not wish to mortify them with the knowledge that someone was privy to their...coupling. I just do not think I can bring myself to pray in the Abbey for a little while."

"Understandable." The Heir told him. "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"Certainly. Now, if you will excuse me, I will not keep you up any longer this evening." Baldwin rose from the chair.

"I wouldn't complain if you kept me up all night." The Heir said without even thinking as the joking words left them. But then they were keenly aware of Baldwin's unseen eyes on them and they froze, face going bright red. "That was out loud, wasn't it?" They asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes." Came the Leper's reply. Suddenly, throwing themselves into the fireplace was a very inviting idea. But instead of running out in disgust, Baldwin simply chuckled and said, "I will keep that in mind."

And then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him, while the Heir tried to wrap their head around what had just happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #sorrynotsorry
> 
> This is the last of the content I had planned for this piece, but as I've just begun another playthrough I won't call it quits just yet. We haven't even gotten to the Crimson Court yet...
> 
> Regardless, thank you all for reading!


	8. Questionable Choice of Attire and Lifestyle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flagellant joins the party, and while the Heir can admire his...dedication to whatever it was he did, they can't quite shake the idea that maybe his motivation isn't totally pious. 
> 
> Also, it's been over a month and all I have to show for it is this shitty mess. (I'm sorry)
> 
> Apparently, when I'm not in the mood to write any of the papers I need to for college, I crank out fanfiction. If only I could turn this in instead.

The Heir, over the many long weeks they'd spent surrounded by madness in the Hamlet, had more or less grown accustomed to the various oddballs they lived alongside. From the confusing mess that was Junia to Jingles' entire deal, they were convinced they'd seen it all.

But the figure sitting in front of their desk was living proof of just how totally wrong they were. 

He had introduced himself as Damian, a pious man from a city they'd never heard of who had come to the Hamlet to help purge the evil from the dungeons. An earnest enough goal at first glance, but there was something about the man that just didn't sit right with the Heir. 

Perhaps it was the overage of passion to his tone when he spoke of cleansing wickedness or perhaps his oddly plain name, or perhaps it was the bloodied clothing he wore and the assortment of scars that crisscrossed his bare chest and back.

Come to think of it, it was probably that last one. Yeah, definitely that one. The man had carried in a flail with him into the Heir's study, a meaner sort than what they used over in the Penance Hall up the hill. In a place such as this, where unspeakable evils lurked around every corner, one would expect the heroes that came to combat said evils would bring weapons suited to such a task. A flail wasn't exactly something they'd peg as an ideal choice.

"So, Damian, all this talk of purging and whatnot is very nice and all, but I'm curious as to just what you can offer us here?" The Heir asked him - folding their hands before them on their desk and looking at the man. The majority of his face was covered by the tattered hood he wore, but the broad smile on his lips was clear.

"I wish to join you in wiping these lands clean."

"And how exactly would you do that?"

"However I can. Even if I must suffer to see the evil banished, even if the price is my own life, even if-"

The Heir stared at him. He certainly was...eager. "I doubt such dramatic lengths would be necessary - our goal here to get everyone out in one piece."  They said with a half chuckle.

Damian looked visibly offended at the comment. "But I would not oppose - there is nothing purer than the shedding of one's own blood in the pursuit of holiness."

"Perhaps for you, but that's hardly what we're going for."

"Please, let me break my own skin and paint our foes sanguine with my flail!" 

Shifting uncomfortably in their chair under the intensity of a gaze they couldn't even see, the Heir rubbed their neck. "Damian, I admire your enthusiasm, but-" 

His voice rose and he stood from his chair. "The Light favors those who suffer for it - blood is the pathway to salvation! I am guided by the pain - the Light demands it!" He was shouting by the time he was finished, and the Heir was staring at him half in fear and half in confusion. There were people who sought redemption in the Penance Hall, but then there was Damian, who was in a league of his own here. 

Seeing no logical reason in trying to take this conversation anywhere else, the Heir coughed and offered him a slight smile. "We'd love to have you with us, Damian."

Immediately he returned to a civilized demeanor. "Thank you, my Liege." He said, "I will make sure that every drop of blood I spill will be towards your goal."

"Thanks..." The Heir replied with little gusto.

He left after that, and stories would find the Heir in the coming weeks about how Damian was often found in the Penance Hall screaming as he frantically whipped himself. Everyone seemed unnerved by the man, and the Hier couldn't blame them. He was bizarre, which was saying something considering everything they'd seen. But they didn't really notice just how odd he was until one fateful expedition where the Flagellant showed his true colors.

They were in the Ruins, trying the clear out a particularly pesky group of cultists who had claimed a particular branch of dungeon as their own. The group consisted of the Hier and Damian, of course, along with Baldwin, Alhazred, and Junia. The first couple fights had gone smoothly (or, as smoothly as fights ever went), but by the time they approached the fourth room the Heir was starting to notice something odd about Damian. He'd been hit a couple times in the last fight but had refused to allow Junia to heal him - saying the pain was making him stronger.

But as they entered the next room, and the cultists came at them, something greatly changed in the Flagellant. Something...wrong.

Damian, from his position behind Baldwin in the lineup, seemed to practically throw himself at the battle with a fervor that seemed a little too intense, even for him. The Heir watched from the sidelines, frowning, and watched as he went at the nearest brawler with what seemed to be everything he had.

And then it happened.

A brawler came at him, and Damian's voice rang out through the dimly-lit room.

"Punish me, daddy!" Came the man's voice, thick with a heady moan.

The battle came to a schreeching halt as everyone, including the half-mad cultists who the Heir wasn't sure actually understood speech, stopped to stare at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had much chance to play any DD recently since I've been hella busy with college, but I promise to continue providing shitty content at least until finals hit. (And now that the Shieldbreaker's out, I have more reason play)


	9. The Final Chapter?!?!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir reaches the end of their journey, though they can't say they're too very happy about it. Come to think of it, nobody's really pleased at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S FUCKING SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING HERE YO (not that I have any clue what's actually going on). Also, enjoy my awful attempt at writing something vaguely serious.

"What the fuck?" The Heir was saying for perhaps the seventh or eighth time since the party's entrance into the Dungeon.  As the sea of shifting stars and celestial fog swirled around them, making it appear as though every step took them further into nothingness, it wasn't too difficult to see why that had been such a constant mantra for the Heir. They'd expected something spectacularly horrifying here at the end, but this wasn't quite what they'd had in mind, especially now that the form of their ancestor was popping up here and there to spout cryptic nonsense. Was it a fever dream? Had they died long ago and now this was their version of the afterlife? Because if it was, the Heir had a bit of constructive criticism for their divine creator: don't make the place so fucking weird. They could accept being in hell, but it'd be nice if it was at least comprehensible.

Yet the Heir doubted they had the pleasure of being dead, and as the party trudged ever onward, not really sure where they were going, the Heir felt a knot of apprehension growing in their stomach. Something was ahead, they sensed, something far more terrifying than anything they'd ever faced before. And since they'd previously gone toe-to-toe with a giant pig made of rancid flesh, the Heir didn't want to try and imagine just what it was going to be. 

It was only the thought of victory that kept them moving forward, the knowledge that whatever it was they were going to face, spooky-ass buildup be damned, could be killed just like everything else. Even with their ancestor's ghost stopping them to pass along uplifting messages about the futility of their mission, the Heir only gritted their teeth and pushed forward, passing the forboding words off as a trick being played by whatever evil lurked unseen in the stars around them.

**Ten Minutes Later**

"I have to pick?" The Heir cried from where they were held hostage by a mass of writhing tentacles, forced to watch as their party fought through the various forms of this bizarre foe. First, it had taken the shape of the ancestor, then multiple copies of their ancestor, then it had become a giant heart, and now finally it was some creepy figure reaching out from the aforementioned heart that was apparently asking them to pick which of the party was to die. It was a scandalous question, but the figure seemed to be patiently waiting for their answer. "How am I supposed to just pick someone to die?" They went on, although they didn't think they'd be getting a reply. Of course.

The Heir looked with fearful and astounded eyes to their party, who were frozen in place by an invisible force. Junia, Baldwin, Dismas, and Reynauld; all faithful companions along this journey. They might have had their quirks, but they were possibly the closest things to friends the Heir had known during their time in the Halmet. And now they had to pick one to die at the hands of this...thing. It hardly seemed fair, to be honest.

The silence was suffocating as the party stared at the Heir, unable to do anything else but wait for their verdict. But the Heir couldn't bring themselves to chose. How could they?

Finally, a voice spoke up, the gentle baritone shockingly calm giving the circumstances. "Spare the others, I am ready." Baldwin said, meeting the Heir's gaze with unfaltering resolve.

While they ought to have been relieved to have a volunteer, the Heir was secretly wishing it had been anyone else. The Leper was one of the few totally sane people in the Hamlet, someone who didn't complain about pews or wear a clown mask. But did they have a choice? The many eyes of the Heart were looking at them, and the Heir swallowed hard. "Baldwin, my man," They said with a lump in their throat, "it's been a pleasure."

Suddenly, with a terrible wail from the Heart, the floor around him slit open and Baldwin was caught in the grasp of the tentacles that emerged. Within an instant, he was gone.

The fight resumed, with the remaining party once more able to act. That was, until a few minutes later when the Heart once more froze the trio and looked expectantly at the Heir, who let out an agonized groan.

"Are you kidding me? Again? C'mon man, really?"

The eyes blinked as if to say, "Really."

Faced once again with a seemingly impossible choice, the Heir looked at their party and inhaled slowly. This time, it looked like they would get no volunteers, not that they could blame the three.

"There's really only one way for me to do this..." The Heir said solemnly. They wiggled their hand free from the tentacles' grasps, and, extending a slim finger, began to say, "Eeny, meeny, miny moe," while pointing to each of their teammates in turn.

The looks they received for this method were understandably bewildered and insulted.

"Catch a tiger by the toe." The Heir went on, trying to keep their finger from trembling.

"If he hollers, let him go," The looks of anger shifted to nervous fear as the rhyme neared its end.

"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe." With the final word, the Heir found their finger pointing at Junia's mortified face. The Heir, unable to meet her eyes, looked at the Heart and nodded.

"I-it's too horrible! Noooo!" Came Junia's scream as she, too, was consumed by the floor. The Heir prayed her death was at least quick. 

Dismas and Reynauld, alone now, looked at each other. "Can't fucking believe how little we were paid to come here." Dismas said to the Crusader, to which Reynauld shook his head in disappointed agreement. The two men, with a shared glance between them, redirected their attention to their foe with grim determination. The Heir watched with bated breath as they whittled down the Heart until finally, the foul creature fell with a monstrous cry. They collapsed to the ground as the tentacles holding them withered away, but before they even had the time to suck in a gasping breath, the world around them was dissolving into nothingness.

Their ancestor's voice called out to them again from the void, and as he spoke the Heir understood. It had all been in vain, they realized. Everything they'd done, all the pain and nightmares had just been in service to some terrible cycle. 

 _Well...shit._ Was all they could think. _That's not very fair at all._

**An Unspecified Amount of Time Later**

The carriage rattled along the Old Road, jostling its occupants and making at least one of them regret having such a large quantity of drink the night prior. This individual, with a dark cape still pulled snugly around their form, leaned against the window and looked out into the twisting trees beyond the road. In their hand was a letter, the sloppy writing nearly undecipherable, calling them to a Hamlet far off the beaten trail in order to reclaim a lost family home. The writer was some eccentric relative of theirs whose existence was only proven by the presence of their name on aged family records, and while that should have been suspicious, they still felt compelled to answer the call. Against the advice of their friends and family, this new Heir had gathered a pair of hands; a grizzled Crusader and surly Highwayman, and set off with the half-mad Caretaker who had brought them the letter.

Watching the woods rush by, they were pondering over just what they were getting into when something caught their eye. Perhaps it had just been a figment of their imagination, but they could have sworn that out in those trees they had seen a specter. The gaunt, ethereal form, swaying in an otherworldly breeze, had raised its shriveled, bony arm, and the new Heir had watched with wide eyes as the phantom flipped them off before disappearing behind a passing tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I'll come back and add some more after the new DLC drops, but I figured I ought to lay this trainwreck to rest for now. Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and letting me write shitty fanfiction. It's been a blast. Peace out.


End file.
